


Finders Keepers

by bluetilo



Series: Lost and Found [1]
Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Begging, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Drinking, Explicit Language, Hand Jobs, Intergluteal Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Mentions of pornography, Nipple Play, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, POV Third Person Limited, Rimming, Sexual Inexperience, Sexuality Crisis, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-22 03:22:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9580298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluetilo/pseuds/bluetilo
Summary: During a run, Daryl finds out something unexpected about Rick.





	1. Dead People's Kinks

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place a week before the events of S04E01 "30 Days Without an Accident."

Sometimes Daryl almost feels like they’re getting careless. 

If you want to survive, common sense says you hardly ever should go on a supply run by yourself. If you get cornered somewhere because the house you thought was clear actually isn’t, if you draw the attention of a herd and end up trapped between a dead-end alley and a hundred dead bastards… then a partner might just give you that edge you need to survive. Who knows, the two of you might come up with some escape strategy that you can’t do on your own. Then again, the rules of the game have changed now that the world has sunk so deep into shit—your buddy’s brilliant plan might just be to leave you behind like a goddamn walker piñata and make a run for it. 

In the end, there’s no step-by-step guide on how to survive the apocalypse. Each person figures out their own way. At this point, those who haven’t are either dead and gone, or dead and walking around, trying to eat the living. 

Glenn is one of the rare few who do pretty well on his own, so Daryl gets it why he’s so picky when choosing who will tag along. Maggie is a frequent choice, no surprise there. With the way they’re always on top of each other, it’s a wonder they even need words to communicate at all. Other than his wife, Glenn is usually okay with Daryl’s company as well. Hunting has given him a lightness to his feet that works well when scavenging. In fact, Daryl is coming to realize how similar the two things can be; it’s all a matter of adapting a set of skills he’s already got. 

In the woods, whether you’re tracking game, people or walkers, you always have to keep your eyes and ears open, learn to read your surroundings—and can’t you say the same about a supply run? Each house, apartment, school, church… they all have traces left by the people who used to live or go there, hinting at what you’re most likely to find. A room in a suburban house with purple walls covered in band posters doesn’t usually signal for more than teenage angst, but student dorms tend to be canned goods and ramen jackpot. But those clues are kind of obvious, stuff most people learned pretty soon. The trick lies in noticing what is hidden in plain sight—maybe the mother of that picture-perfect family whose house you’re looting slept with a knife taped under her bed. It’s up to you to find the X that marks the spot. Daryl doesn’t fool himself thinking he’s anywhere as good as Glenn at this, but he manages pretty well, all things considered. Most places have already been looted too many times to have anything of worth, and the traces left by the original residents get muddled by the dozen survivors or so who have been there after the Turn. 

Their knowledge of the prison’s proximities makes them comfortable enough to split during runs—they can cover more ground that way—and meet up on the way back. Today Glenn better get lucky on his side of the neighborhood, because Daryl isn’t making much progress on his end. There is no shortage of clothes and sheets, but they’ve got plenty of that back at the prison. He’s found some crackers a couple of houses down, but the one he’s currently in doesn’t look promising at all. The kitchen’s cupboards are practically empty and the only thing in the fridge is a bunch of rotten vegetables that would’ve gotten Daryl nauseous if he still held on to his pre-apocalypse sensitivities. 

There’s an art studio on the second floor that looks like some stay-at-home parent’s afternoon hobby, but other than an ink-smeared screwdriver, Daryl can’t see anything worth salvaging.

In the kid’s room, he shoves two toy cars in his backpack, but leaves the stuffed animals alone. He considers giving up on that house in hopes of finding something in the next one, but he still hasn’t checked the master suite and he hates not being thorough. 

The parents’ bedroom looks like a thousand he’s seen before. The mattress on the double bed is nice enough—even with a large yellow stain, it’s still better than the one he’s got at the prison. Had they driven the truck here instead of Daryl’s bike, he might’ve taken it back home. The medicine cabinet in the bathroom is empty save for an old razorblade and a half-filled tube of toothpaste, which he pockets. There’s a Reader’s Digest on the bedside table and nothing more. Habit is the only reason why he checks the wardrobe, but a smirk finds its way to his lips when one of the drawers turns out to be locked—locks usually mean good loot. Someone else might have needed a crowbar or something to force it open, but it’s an old wardrobe and Daryl reloads his crossbow at least twenty times a day, so he only needs a well-placed pull to get the job done. The drawer slides open, its contents bouncing inside. 

Well, shit. 

He sure gets why someone would rather keep this stuff under lock and key, but unless he’s planning on giving a more literal meaning to _fuck those damn walkers_ , half a dozen large dildos aren’t going to help him much. 

Daryl catches himself looking over his shoulder, like he's thirteen all over again and Merle is going to creep up at him at any moment, calling him Darleena and making fun of the time he spends in the shower.

Eyes back to the open drawer, Daryl frowns. The dildos he understands, even if he is mildly shocked at how big and realistic they are, all veiny and everything. But there is a lot of funny-shaped stuff in there, too, and he can’t begin to imagine where some of them go. He can’t help feeling a bit curious—and a little nostalgic, to be honest. This world has no room for people to relax and try weird shit— _sexual_ weird shit, at least, and not _what is the nastiest thing you’re willing to eat to keep from starving_ shit. Not that Daryl is one of those people, the kind who tries kinky stuff. Never been, actually, not even before the apocalypse. He’s barely done the regular with two or three girls Merle shoved his way and pretty much taunted him into fucking. 

Standing there wondering about dead people’s kinks is probably a waste of sunlight, but Daryl can’t make himself leave yet. He squats next to the drawer and nudges things around with the tip of his hunting knife until something catches his attention. It’s a videotape—a very old one, judging by how faded the pictures on the cover are. The title reads _Straight Jocks IV,_ hanging in dark purple letters just above two bulky, naked men wearing jockstraps. Daryl’s face suddenly feels like it's on fire. 

Trying not to wonder why, he reaches for the tape to get a better look at it. At first, he didn’t understand why someone would keep an old tape like this when you could watch all the porn you wanted online, back when internet was still a thing, but now he gets it. One of the jocks on the cover is the same man on the family pictures on the wall, if you add a dozen pounds, crow’s feet and a receding hairline. But then Daryl turns the tape to check out the back cover and his jaw drops to his chest. The model on the back cover—it’s Rick Grimes.

Someone who doesn’t know him well might not have recognized him; the hair on that version of Rick is a lot longer, thicker, and wilder than his current self. His smooth jaw shows no sign of the woodsman beard that never leaves his face nowadays, and his lips are several shades redder than they are today. But the sharp angle of his nose is unmistakable; the model’s lean, wiry body is the same as the man he knows so well. Even in that picture so discolored by time, anyone can see the bright blue of the young man’s eyes matches the tone of Rick’s irises.

In the photo, young Rick is sitting on a tall stool with his profile towards the camera, his thigh angled so the goods are out of sight. Next to him, there are several small pictures—stills from the movie—as well as a brief summary of the scenes.

Somewhere close to him, a man says, “Daryl? You in there?”

It’s Glenn’s voice, part whisper, part shout, calling him downstairs. Daryl gulps down nervously, his heart fluttering inside his chest like he’s just been caught with his hand inside the cookie jar. Hands shaking, he spends all of two seconds holding the tape, at a loss for what to do. In the end, he mutters a quiet _fuck it_ under his breath and shoves it inside his backpack, kicking the drawer closed. He then tries to answer Glenn, but swallows a bit of saliva wrong in the process, coughing roughly before he can start over.

“I’ll be right down.”

Meeting Glenn downstairs makes his blush flair up again, but that’s stupid. He’s got no way of knowing what Daryl was doing.

“Any luck?”

Daryl shakes his head. “Crackers and some stuff for Judith, but nothing big. You?”

“Baby formula, some canned meat and half a bottle of ibuprofen. Sun is almost setting. I think we should probably call it a day. This place has already been picked clean. It’ll be risky, but I was thinking we could put together a party and try to hit that Big Spot across the river in a few days.”

“Thought you didn’t like bringing too many people along.”

Glenn shrugs. “I don’t. But Sasha and Tyreese are showing progress. And I got no complaints with you or Michonne.”

It sounds like a good plan, but Daryl would have agreed to pretty much anything that got them on the way home. The tape is feeling heavy like an anvil inside his backpack, impossible to ignore.

* * *

Michonne and Carol are on guard duty when they get to the prison. Carol lures the walkers the opposite way, banging on the fence and shouting to taunt them, while Michonne pulls the lever that opens the gate. Daryl rides in and parks his bike under the watchtower, and Glenn is off the passenger seat before he even turns off the engine. 

Some of the new residents tend to eagerly crowd anyone coming back from a run, used to the luxuries of Woodbury, but his group knows better. Michonne, more than anyone, knows what it’s like to be out there on your own and approaches them with just a quiet smile. It’s exactly the lack of expectations that makes her so easy to talk to, and Glenn is already sharing the details of their afternoon. 

Carol touches Daryl’s shoulder affectionately on the way to her post up the watchtower and he nods at her, watching Glenn and Michonne talk but not hearing a word they’re saying. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, a little uncomfortable. What does he usually do as soon as he gets back from a run? He can’t remember. He doesn’t want it to look like he’s ready to bolt, though it’s exactly that. Then again, he’s never been one for small talk and starting today would only get people suspicious. 

“See y’all at dinner,” he says at last, making his way to the prison. 

Ever since the survivors from Woodbury joined them, it’s become harder for Daryl to make sure his little isolation sanctuaries stay private. He’s currently staying in an old monitoring room next to cell block B—an acceptable distance from C and D, where most people sleep, but still close enough for him to help should anything happen—but not even that keeps people away. Twice already he’s come back from the shower to find a pair of gleamy-eyed kids fumbling with his vest and crossbow, and he might not have seen it himself, but he's pretty sure that Zach dude has been stealing his cigarettes. Tonight, however, everything looks in order. His clothes, the whetstone for his hunting knife, spare bolts, the magazines piling up on the corner… all of it is right where he left it. 

Daryl’s got a flashlight, but he’d rather save the batteries for when he’s out there, so he lights the oil lamp he uses in his room and drops his backpack on the floor, sitting down beside it with his back against the door. No one has ever barged in without knocking before—nobody is _that_ crazy—but he won’t take any chances. Not tonight, not now. He takes a deep breath, hands feeling a little cold as he unzips the backpack. On the way home, disbelief had pretty much convinced him he’d realize what a terrible mistake he’s made, and the man he thought was Rick is just a lookalike. 

Because it can’t be Rick, of course it can’t. Rick used to be a sheriff in Georgia, a married man and a father, not the “straight jock” in some cheap porno. Then again, the man who had owned the drawer full of dildos was a husband and a father as well, and if his house is anything to go by, he had a nice job too. So Daryl does the only thing he can and retrieves the tape from his backpack. 

The face he sees under the lamp’s yellowish light is definitely Rick’s—that young Rick, oblivious to the pain and horrors his Rick knows so well. 

Daryl exhales in a long puff, his heart beating like a hummingbird’s wings all of a sudden. He brings the lamp closer, wanting to see the tiny pictures better. Almost all the frames are from other men—most guys are too muscular to even resemble Rick’s body—but one leaves room for doubt. It shows a man from the neck down, sitting on a bed with his legs parted, hard cock in hand. Daryl brings the lamp even closer to the paper cover. The picture is awfully grained, but maybe he can recognize Rick’s hand? He’s definitely seen it often enough to remember what it looks like. But then he feels the heat radiating from the flame too hot on his skin, and notices how close he’s been holding the lamp. He places it carefully on the floor, a couple feet away from him, suddenly afraid it’ll slip from his trembling fingers and set the room on fire or something. 

He looks back at the cover. The film’s summary says, _Watch straight jocks bare it all. They may not be gay for pay, but they definitely don’t mind you watching as they play with themselves. Come see them stroke their hard, leaking cocks, open their legs and rub their own cum on their stomachs. Featuring five new studs for your pleasure._  

Fuck. Rick did all that in front of a camera? The same Rick who took them to the CDC, led them all winter, cleared the prison, rescued him from the Governor… that Rick? He was pretty young in that video. Maybe twenty, twenty-one? Definitely no more than twenty-two. Was he married by then? Shit, did Lori even know about this? Dildo guy’s wife obviously knew, if he kept a souvenir from his late porn star days in his own house. But Lori never struck him as the kind of woman who would be okay with her husband having an explicit movie out there for the world to see. Why did Rick even do it? Did he need some quick cash and thought starring in an adult video was the way to do it? It sure makes a hell of a lot more sense than Rick getting in the business in hopes of becoming an actual high-profile porn star. Not that anything about Rick being in this video makes any sense. 

Pulling the tape out of its cheap paper cover, he sees a thick layer of mold covering the reel. Daryl isn’t disappointed, not in the least. It’s not like he’s got a TV and a VCR lying around, just waiting till he’s in the mood for something explicit. Besides, it’d probably be a violation of Rick’s privacy if Daryl watched that—even if he did record it in a studio and signed a contract giving the world permission to see it. Either way, it’s not like Daryl _wants_ to see Rick jerking off. Why would he even want such a thing? If he wanted to see a man rub one out, all he needed to do is undo his jeans and get to work, right? 

He glimpses at the still that may or may not be Rick and feels a tingling in his crotch. Some men in the other frames aren’t just jerking off; some of them are on all fours to the camera, pulling their ass cheeks apart, and even if none of them are actually stuffing things in there, Daryl supposes it’s a good shot when it gives you so much to see. Did Rick do that in his video too or did he just _stroke his hard, leaking cock_ like the cover says? Unbidden, Daryl’s mind flashes him with an image of Rick doing just that. 

Somewhere in the past few minutes, he’s gotten half-hard in his jeans. 

Daryl has seen plenty of dick in his life. Most of them soft, either as a teenager in the gym’s locker room or in camp after the apocalypse, where there was little to no privacy. But he’s seen his share of hard ones in the occasional porn, too, thrusting into varied holes of good-looking women, back when he still bothered lifting something from his brother’s stash. Not that Merle would have refused to share, but Daryl would rather avoid the teasing and the mockery that would surely follow. Besides, after the initial curiosity was over, the videos failed to hold his attention. His dick got hard all right, probably his body’s natural reaction, but he felt no urge watching them. 

The experience of seeing a hard cock without the female element looks entirely different, though. Not that it means anything; it’s probably just the novelty aspect of it that’s gotten Daryl a little more than half-hard right now. It’s got nothing to do with the fact the men on the pictures have better faces and better bodies than the men in Merle’s movies had. Rubbing the heel of his palm on his cock from over his jeans, teasing the head just a little, has nothing to do with seeing his friend’s body on display, the redness of his lips, or the likelihood Rick Grimes—former cop, father of two, close friend who has saved his life countless times—got on all fours and pulled his ass wide open for someone else to see. For Daryl to see. 

What was Rick thinking of when he shot this?, Daryl can't stop asking himself as his hand works on his erection absent-mindedly. As he unbuckles his belt, unbuttons his pants and lowers the zipper, he can’t stop wondering how it all happened. Was Rick already naked when the cameras started rolling, or did he strip in front of them too? Probably the latter. In the porn he’s seen, women often undress slowly, putting on a show for the viewer. Why would man on man porn be any different? And if Rick did put on a show, what did it look like? Daryl tries to imagine, but his mind goes blank, not knowing the first thing about what a man can do to be sexy. 

Hard cock in his fist, Daryl gives it a long stroke from root to tip. He’s uncut—was born a couple months too soon, and by the time he finally came home from the hospital, it had turned into one of those things his parents never got around to actually doing. Growing up, he was one of the only two uncut boys in the school’s locker room. Come to think of it, he hasn’t seen Rick naked that many times, but from what he can recall, his dick is cut and has a nice pink head to go with it. The wiry man in the picture is cut, too—shit, maybe it really is Rick. 

He can’t see it very well—fuck, he can barely see anything—but Daryl would bet the man’s grip on his cock is quite firm. It’s how Daryl himself likes it, and it's how he’s doing right now while looking at the picture. Was Rick shy filming that or did the camera turn him on even more? Daryl could never do shit like that. At least he thinks so. He got so tense with those girls Merle shoved his way he had trouble even keeping his hard-on. But what Rick did isn’t the same as that, is it? Rick didn’t screw anyone on camera. They were just watching him have fun by himself. 

Did Rick close his eyes and imagined himself fucking some woman? The other men in the pictures are almost always looking at the camera. The director, cameraman, whatever, might’ve asked Rick to do it too. They might’ve even asked Rick to moan, or say something dirty. Daryl doesn’t moan much himself; it wouldn’t be smart, considering every time he gets some quality time with his right hand, he’s somewhere he needs to be quiet. And he supposes there isn’t much fun in moaning when you’re the only one hearing it. If he had a TV, a VCR, electricity, and if the tape wasn’t so damn moldy, he might watch it and find out if Rick had moaned, gasped, talked dirty, and what his face looked like when he came. Then again, if all those things were available to him, it’d be because the apocalypse never happened and he wouldn’t have met Rick—and even if he had, they probably would never have become friends and that’s a reality Daryl doesn’t like to consider. 

Daryl opens his eyes not knowing exactly when he closed them, and stares at young Rick’s unworried expression, his right hand still going up and down his cock while the right one holds the paper cover in front of his face. His palm feels a little too dry on his skin, so he lowers his head for a moment, sending a well-aimed mouthful of spit on the tip of his dick. The easier slide sends a shiver down his spine. Porn studios probably had all kinds of lube, not just that Astroglide shit you get from the drugstore, but he tries to imagine Rick doing exactly what he’s just done. He’s no porn director or anything, but he bets that’s a scene people would be willing to pay good money to see. 

One of the stills shows a muscular, hairy man jerking off from a weird angle, like the person looking at the picture is kneeling in front of him; the position makes the man’s cock look bigger. Daryl wonders what it would be like to see Rick touch himself from that point of view. Not that Rick needs help making things seem bigger. From what Daryl remembers, even when soft, Rick’s size is nothing to be embarrassed about, and if the lean guy in the tiny picture is indeed Rick—Daryl has already decided it is—then his friend definitely has no reason to complain. 

Hand working faster, Daryl realizes with a start how close he is to coming. He has no recent memory of ever getting there so fast. How long did Rick take to come in the video? Did he try to stave it off for the camera’s sake, slowing it down every time he got close? Probably. Daryl imagines Rick teasing himself, once, twice, three times, always stopping right before he comes, until his cock is twitching in his hand. Rubbing himself good just to shoot come on his own stomach like it says on the cover. Daryl’s last thought before he squirts his own come on the dusty floor is, _fuck_ , does he envy everyone who got a chance of seeing Rick do all that stuff. 

As his body’s temperature begins to cool down and the last of the aftershocks are over, Daryl’s thoughts lose the frenzied quality of the last few minutes. The contrast his come paints on the dark floor is so distinct it makes something warm like bile come crawling up his throat. Hands shaking, he shoves the tape back into his backpack and stands up, only noticing his pants are still open when they threaten to fall down his hips. He tucks himself back and pulls the zipper closed, taking a deep breath to steady himself. 

Daryl tries not to look at the wet stain on the floor when he rubs the sole of his boot on it, wishing he could wipe away his confusing thoughts just as easily.


	2. For Daryl's Eyes Only

A dull ache is already seeping into Daryl’s arms by the time he sees Carol approaching him from a distance; killing walkers through the fence is most people’s go-to way of blowing off steam these days. In another time, people might’ve chosen to go for a run, land a few blows on a punching bag, or even drown their sorrows in booze, but nowadays nothing does the trick quite like poking holes in walking corpses’ heads. 

Carol doesn’t ask him what got him so riled up, which he’s thankful for. 

“Dinner is served in the cafeteria. Karen’s made her special broth,” she says. 

He almost refuses, but after ten long hours since his last meal, his stomach’s loud groans warn him it wouldn’t accept being ignored anymore. Besides, Karen’s broth isn’t too bad—a mix of preserved vegetables and canned meat he’s learned to enjoy—so he lays down the bloodied iron rod he's holding. 

“I’ll check the perimeter while you’re gone.” 

Daryl nods at her and starts walking back to the prison. It was a bad idea killing walkers without an apron; his arms and even part of his chest are thickly splattered with walkers’ innards. He makes a quick stop in his room to fetch a change of clothes and heads to the showers—showing up at the cafeteria like this would only kill everyone’s appetite—but when he gets to his destination, the sound of splashing water tells him someone is already there. 

The glow of the bathroom’s lantern isn’t faint enough to keep him from recognizing Rick’s naked back. Daryl looks away for a moment, uneasy at being alone with the man like this, so shortly after seeing that picture of him—after what he did while looking at the picture. 

“Hey, Daryl,” Rick greets him, looking over his shoulder as he rinses soap off his body. His hair is wet and the water weighs on its curls, making them look longer. “Dinner’s ready?” 

Daryl doesn’t trust his voice, so he nods instead, frozen to the spot. 

“Fuck. I’d promised Karen I’d help her with dinner this time. Till I started growing crops here, I never thought I’d find anything harder to wash off than walkers’ guts,” Rick says, nodding at the grisly mess caked on Daryl’s skin. “Stinks like crazy, but melts easily enough with water and a little soap. But dirt? You’ll scrub yourself pink before it all goes down the drain.” 

Daryl nods again, his mouth dry; he’s never been good at chitchat, even more so if the other guy is naked and his mind won’t stop replaying casual words like _fuck_ and _harder_ in a very different context. Water finally stops flowing through the showerhead, and Rick lets out a relaxed sigh before grabbing a thin towel from a nearby hanger. He wipes off his torso carelessly and then bends down to get his legs dry. Not very much unlike what Daryl has seen in similar occasions, but seeing Rick with his ass up in the air makes Daryl blush this time, so he hurries to his own stall and starts undressing, hoping his nervousness doesn’t show. 

He leaves his dirty clothes in a heap on the floor—now they’re _both_ naked, his mind adds helpfully—and works the lever on the water pump several times before turning the shower’s on-an-off device. He’s standing under the thin stream of water, keeping his eyes closed as the drops trickle down his face, when Rick puts something in his hand, their fingers touching for half a second. A soap. Daryl opens his eyes and looks at Rick, standing next to him in the bathroom, towel now wrapped around his hips. 

“Go ahead and use mine. I saw you forgot to bring any,” Rick offers, pulling on a pair of jeans. 

Daryl mutters a _thank you_ under his breath, holding the bar so tight it’s a wonder it doesn’t slip from his grip and ricochets to the other side of the bathroom, overtaken by the ridiculous thought he’s going to use the same soap that Rick just rubbed everywhere on his own body. With how much he blushes, the bathroom’s half-light surely comes in handy. 

Daryl takes at least ten minutes alone in the shower after Rick leaves, most of that time spent just standing under the stream once he’s done washing himself, quiet except for the hammering inside his chest and the loud growls of his empty stomach. He tries to get his shit together and steel his nerves, but he can’t shake the feeling that, as soon as Rick sees him—really sees him, somewhere brightly lit like the cafeteria, where Daryl can’t hide in the shadows—he’ll just know. Sure, there’s no way Rick can know the specifics of it—that Daryl found Rick’s decade-old skin flick, and blew his load looking at his friend’s naked pictures—but he’ll take one look at Daryl and know _something_ has happened, _something_ is wrong. Maybe with time Daryl will be able to look at Rick and not get constantly struck by mental images of the man holding his impressive erection in front of a camera, but that definitely isn’t happening tonight. 

But if Rick does notice anything during dinner, he shows no sign of that. While Daryl spends most of his meal staring at nothing but his own plate—which isn’t that different from what he normally does—Rick is engrossed in some conversation with Hershel about Georgia’s weather and something else about seeds. Daryl tries his best not to pay much attention. 

After the world fell apart and electricity became a luxury, most people started retiring early in the night. Except for standing guard, it makes little sense to stay awake for long hours after dark; there are no bars to go to, no TV to watch, and reading by candlelight isn’t particularly easy on the eyes. Tonight is no different; Maggie, Zach, and some woman from Woodbury whose name Daryl can’t remember linger in the cafeteria for a while, but most people retire to their rooms right after dinner is over. Michonne shows up shortly after that, having finished her guard duty for the night. 

But when Maggie starts readying herself to take over the next shift, Daryl intervenes. 

“I’ll cover for you.” 

“You sure?” she asks, but the way she glances at her cell block’s direction is proof enough she’d rather spend the night with her husband instead of patrolling the prison’s grounds. 

Daryl nods. What’s the point in going to bed when he knows he won’t get any sleep? Besides, he’d rather put some distance between him and that damn tape, even if just for a few hours.

* * *

The wind blows cold as the full moon rises higher and higher in the sky. Daryl doesn’t feel as restless now, the eagerness to crack walkers’ skulls mostly gone, and he’s fine with just making his rounds next to the fence. If he tunes out the groans coming from the small clusters of creepers, the night almost seems quiet. It’s like walkers’ noises have become just one of the sounds of the night, like the constant chirping of crickets and the occasional hoot of an owl—the difference being Daryl actually likes to hear the owls. 

He’s just stopped for a smoke twenty yards or so away from the bean crops when something in his peripheral vision catches his eye. The cigarette still hanging unlit from his lips, he watches someone go inside the tool shed next to the bushes. Even from a distance, the person’s gait is unmistakable—the only man in the prison to hold himself this high, walking like he’s on a mission, is Rick. And it’s damn ironic that exactly when Daryl needs to be away from him, he seems to meet the man everywhere he goes. Did Rick forget something in the shed? Maybe he was in bed and realized he’d forgotten some important farmer shit he needs to get done before morning. 

It would be better to keep his distance and Daryl knows it, but he still finds himself returning the cigarette to the package and sliding it back inside his shirt’s pocket as he approaches the shed with quiet steps. His mind insists on telling him he’s just checking in on Rick, making sure he doesn’t need help with anything, but that recurring thought doesn’t match the fact he’s sneaking around in the darkness like some kind of maniac, instead of walking straight to the man and greeting him out in the open. 

The shack’s flimsy walls are dotted with holes and Daryl spies through one of them, expecting to see Rick picking up some tool, checking a bag of fertilizer or something. But Rick is just sitting on an old chair by the tool rack, a chipped mug in his hand. The way he frowns slightly between sips suggests it’s probably something alcoholic. Daryl hasn’t seen Rick drink ever since that night at the CDC, but this is different. That was a loud celebration among friends, while this is quiet and personal. He doesn’t drink like Daryl’s parents or even Merle used to drink, and it isn’t like Hershel drank that day when Shane shot the walkers in the barn either. Rick’s got a contemplative air to him. What could Rick be thinking about? Is coming to the tool shed in the middle of the night a habit of his? And if it is, how come Daryl has never noticed it? Witnessing such a private moment makes Daryl feel honored and like a trespasser at the same time. He knows he ought to have some respect and leave Rick to his thoughts, but he feels rooted to the spot. 

Rick finishes his drink, placing the mug on the floor, and the hand that is casually resting on his knee slides slowly and softly up his inner thigh—up, up all the way to his crotch, where he grabs a hold of himself and squeezes—and Daryl can barely believe his eyes. His heart resumes that uneven rhythm it’s beaten in most of the day. Ever since he opened that drawer, everything feels like some dream nonsense. 

Rick’s eyes are half-closed as he squeezes his own flesh, tracing its shape through his pants, teasing himself—a lot like Daryl did to himself a few hours ago. But Rick looks relaxed instead of uptight like Daryl was, and his eyes got that hooded look to them, like someone who has just gotten a little tipsy. One hand stays on his dick while the other pulls his shirt from his jeans, exposing his pale stomach. Daryl can’t see very well in the near darkness, but he wonders if the sparse hair on Rick’s body is grayish like his beard. 

Daryl is breathing so shallow it barely sounds like he’s breathing at all; it feels like he’s watching Rick hold his cock for hours, like they’re frozen in time, in a never-ending second. But then Rick finally unbuttons his pants and lowers the zipper, revealing boxer briefs stretched tight over an impressive erection. Is Rick getting wet? Daryl always leaks all over the place, especially if he teases himself as long as Rick is doing. 

The hand that pulled the shirt from his pants just seconds ago now slides underneath that same shirt, ruffling it up a little, exposing more of the man’s stomach. Then Rick does something to his nipple under the fabric, his abs fluttering with the sensation. The other hand slides into the underwear, no barrier between his palm and his cock when Rick finally starts jerking off in earnest. Daryl can’t make out any details of what he’s doing, just sees the rhythmic movement of his hand inside the underwear. It’s at the same time better and worse than watching whatever happened in that video. It’s worse because watching the tape would allow Daryl to actually _see_ everything, pause and rewind and replay it as many times as he felt like, while all he gets here are hints of what Rick is doing. But it’s also better, because this thing right here? It’s for Daryl’s eyes only. It’s just he and Rick alone in the middle of the night, and once it’s over, it’ll only exist in the safety of his mind. 

Rick throws his head back, his mouth open in a soundless _o_. The hand under his shirt keeps moving over that nipple. It must feel extremely sensitive by now, aching even. Daryl has never teased himself like that, and decides he’ll try it the next time he jerks off. The erection tenting his own pants is so hard and big it seems like he’s got a beer can stuffed in there, but he’s too jittery right now to actually do something about it. And if he’s honest, it feels too much like crossing the line; granted, he shouldn’t even be here, spying on the man like this, but to actually beat his dick while he’s at it… that’s taking it to a whole different level. So he just adjusts his cock the best he can from over his jeans and waits. 

The pace of Rick’s hand inside his underwear quickens, stuttering a little as he pulls more up than down. He must be close now, because it’s the first time Daryl hears a proper sound coming out of his mouth, half gasp and half moan, and Daryl nearly whimpers. Rick finally draws his cock out, but Daryl can’t see much beyond the hand now covering the head and half of its length—and even that is breathtaking. Rick’s abs flex tight as his body tenses, and a frown deepens between his eyebrows. Embarrassed, Daryl realizes he’s practically humping the air as he watches it. 

Rick’s first gush of come spills part in his hand and part on the floor, but Daryl never gets to see the second. A black shadow flies swiftly just above his head—a bat, most likely—scaring the living shit out of him. He takes a false step back and trips over a pile of buckets, the loud _thud_ of his back hitting the ground mixing with the metallic rattle of the buckets in the otherwise quiet night. 

His back hurting from the sudden impact, Daryl mutters a quiet _fuck,_ knowing there’s no way he can flee fast enough—he’s been caught. Two seconds later, Rick shows up in front of him with his zipper closed, but the button left undone, his pants hanging low enough for Daryl to see his pubic hair, and _fuck_ , if that isn’t the most obscene thing Daryl has ever seen—which makes no sense considering he just saw the man literally shooting his load. Rick’s eyes give him a quick once-over and Daryl knows there’s no way of hiding his—right now withering—erection. Can shame actually kill a person, give them a heart-attack or something? Because if it can, Daryl is more than halfway there. 

“Looks like you got a problem there,” Rick says, casual like he’s just seen Daryl slip on a banana peel like the character of some goddamn cartoon. “Need a hand?” 

He extends his arm to Daryl, who is still lying on his back like a dumb idiot. Rick pulls him to his feet as soon as Daryl takes his hand—the same hand that was touching Rick’s cock just a moment ago. The thought makes Daryl blush even darker, if it’s even possible. 

“I—ah—um—” he starts foolishly. “I’m just making rounds. Watching out for walkers and shit.” 

Rick gives him a smile so wicked Daryl has no trouble seeing how he could have shot that kind of video. 

“Thanks, man. I wouldn’t want one of those sons of bitches catching me with my pants down.” He eyes Daryl from head to toe one more time. “We might think we’re safe, but we can never really know for sure, right? Good to now you have my back.” 

Daryl narrows his eyes at Rick. The man isn’t laughing, and it doesn’t look like he’s messing with him either, but Daryl doesn’t get why Rick is going along with that bullshit instead of getting downright offended at Daryl acting like a fucking peeping tom around him. Maybe he just doesn’t want any bad blood between them for the group’s sake or something. 

They stay there for a moment, staring at each other in silence, the night’s cool wind blowing past them, and Daryl is already thinking he better make himself scarce when Rick speaks again. 

“You know, if you want to…” he says cautiously, like he’s measuring his words. The air suddenly feels very charged, like static before a storm comes. “I could watch your back too, if you need some alone time. It’s only fair.” 

Daryl opens and closes his mouth a couple times like a dying fish, words escaping him. He thinks he understands what Rick is suggesting, but he can’t be sure—because there’s no way it’s really _that_ , right? The _no_ is on the tip of his tongue, something like, “We’re cool, I get enough alone time in my room.” Any other answer would be stupid; it’s been years since he messed around with anyone, and it was never with a… with a guy. And Rick is not just any guy; they’re partners. They see each other every day, and Daryl would have no way of avoiding him if things went sour—and how could they not? Even if Daryl agrees to this, he’ll definitely fuck up everything. All the other times he’s been with someone, it happened in the dark, and there wasn’t much secret to it: just stick it inside, keep thrusting and hope he didn’t lose his hard-on before it was over. But this… he doesn’t even know what this is, what Rick is actually proposing, where to even begin. 

Daryl looks around himself, fretting, like he can find answers in the damn tomato plants. 

“You can use the tool shed too,” Rick says, his voice low and barely above a whisper. 

Daryl’s dick had softened almost completely when the bat flew past him and he fell on his ass, but now it’s hardening back again so fast it nearly makes him dizzy. Rick’s gaze wandering up and down his body tells him the other man is probably aware of that. Daryl swallows hard, trying not to think as he makes his way into the shed. But once he’s there, he doesn’t know what to do anymore. Rick follows him closely and leans against the shack’s threshold, looking at him instead of outside to watch for imaginary walkers. Daryl isn’t stupid, he knows that talk of watching each other’s backs is just a lame excuse, but it’s surprising to see how little effort Rick is putting in playing pretend. 

He seems to notice Daryl’s hesitation, because he looks serious when he says, “Or you can just leave if you want to. But I’ll be here for you if you choose to stay.” 

“Thanks,” Daryl mutters, unable to form a longer sentence, ridiculously turned on for someone who’s already got a great orgasm that day. 

He waits for instruction, but Rick isn’t giving any, and Daryl knows he needs to do something, otherwise it’s going to look pretty damn stupid the two of them just staring at each other. His fingers tremble as he unbuttons his jeans, but he stops before unzipping. He closes his hands into fists for a moment, not wanting Rick to see how badly he’s shaking. They aren’t even touching—not that Daryl thinks they should be—so there’s no reason for him to be such a big pile of nerves. When he finally lowers his pants far enough to expose his cock, it’s a little weird to see how his anxiety has no impact on how hard he is. With his cock jutting out like that, Daryl feels very self-conscious about not wearing underwear and being uncut. Rick is the first person who actually _sees_ him naked and hard, and Daryl doesn’t know what would be worse—if Rick says something about his body or if he just keeps quiet. 

As it is, Rick’s eyes zero in on his dick—right now harder than it had any right to be when Daryl hasn’t even touched it—before looking up at his face again. 

“You can take your balls out, too, if you want to.” It’s a suggestion, but it sounds more like a command. “Don’t worry, I got you. It’s just us. You got time,” he adds soothingly. 

Daryl obeys—there’s no other way of putting it. He does as he’s told, and right now, he’ll do almost anything Rick tells him to if the man just keeps on using that tone of voice, if he just gives him one more of those ice-melting smiles. 

“Go on,” Rick urges him, nodding, “touch yourself.” 

Daryl complies, grabbing a hold of himself and squeezing from root to tip; he only needs to do it once for a generous drop of precome to gather on the head. He’s used to getting wet fast, but that’s ridiculous. He touches himself slowly, spreading that bead and several others that follow along his shaft. 

“Goddamn, Daryl,” Rick says, and Daryl can swear he’s just licked his lips. “You needed this, didn’t you? I’ve never seen a guy get like this so fast.” 

Daryl bites the inside of his cheek to keep from asking Rick if that means he’s done this before. Now isn’t the time for questions, isn’t the time for anything that could ruin this before it even began. Embarrassment urges him to close his eyes, but at the same time, he doesn’t want to lose the intensity he sees in Rick’s gaze. Trying to distract himself from the dilemma, he pinches his left nipple from over the shirt with his free hand. It makes him frown a bit, unused to the touch, but he kind of likes it. 

Rick grins at him like a jackal. “You like playing with your nipples? I do too.” 

“I noticed,” Daryl blurts out before he can stop himself. There it is, out in the open, his confession that he spied on Rick as he jerked off. Not that there was any doubt on the matter, but it still feels different to actually admit it. 

“But you’re pinching it too hard,” Rick says, like a teacher correcting a student whose answer is just slightly off. 

He approaches Daryl slowly and stands close to him, less than a foot apart, before replacing Daryl’s hand on his chest with his own. Rick’s touch is soft, hesitant even, eyes locked on Daryl’s, giving him enough room to refuse. But all Daryl can do is nod briefly—the same nod they exchange so often out there, every time they defer to each other before committing to a decision. 

“It feels hot when I touch myself like this,” Rick says and just the tip of his fingers ghost over Daryl’s already stiff nipple, so softly he can barely feel it under the shirt, but at the same time so intense his hips give one of those pathetic little humps in the air. 

“You like it?” Rick asks, even if the answer is so obvious. 

“Fuck yeah,” Daryl moans as Rick keeps on touching it. 

Rick takes a step closer, his body touching Daryl’s as lightly as the tip of his fingers grazes his nipple. Daryl could have given into his urges and just pressed his body flush against Rick’s, but for some reason, he enjoys being kept on edge like this. Rick brushes his crotch on Daryl’s hips just enough for him to feel the bulge there—it’s too soon for it to be fully hard, but there’s definitely a spark of interest there. He catches a glimpse of Rick moving his free hand and Daryl’s heart skips a beat, thinking Rick is going to touch his cock, really jerk him off, but Rick touches his wrist instead, guiding the hand with which Daryl is touching himself. His hand covers Daryl’s, changing the unhurried rhythm to something faster and faster. The contrast between that and the fingers teasing his nipple gets Daryl to the point he’s almost desperate to come. 

In the haze of his lust, Daryl realizes he’s been panting like a dog next to Rick’s shoulder, and a fresh bout of shame makes him hide his face in the crook of Rick’s neck. 

“It’s all right, baby, it’s all right. You’re almost there,” Rick whispers, and this time he pinches Daryl’s nipple, just hard enough for a moan to get stuck in his throat when he spills suddenly into his own hand. 

He waits for the frantic beating of his heart to calm down, unmoving, with his face still partially buried in Rick’s neck. Then Rick kisses his right temple and thrusts a handkerchief in his hand—still wet with traces of Rick’s own come. It’s disgusting but weirdly hot at the same time. 

Daryl cleans himself the best he can and has just tucked himself back when Rick smack his hands away, zipping him up and buttoning his pants himself, his fingers so close to Daryl’s dick but still not quite touching it. 

Some dream nonsense through and through. 

“Why don’t you go take a nap and I’ll get Sasha to stand guard the rest of the night?” Rick suggests. “I heard you’re going hunting tomorrow, and it seems to me you’ve exerted yourself plenty for one day.” 

“Yeah, okay,” Daryl agrees, barely hearing the words out of his mouth. 

The walk back to the prison is uncomfortably silent, but Daryl can’t think of anything to say. Back in his room, Daryl lies in the dark and even closes his eyes, but his thoughts are racing. By the time they calm down enough for him to sleep, the sun is already shining its first shy rays through the window. Better get on his feet and fix himself some coffee if he’s to go on a hunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this chapter three days before the schedule because I'm overwhelmed with the positive response I got. Oh my god, thank you so much for the kudos, subscriptions and comments.


	3. Testament to His Pride

Daryl tracked the deer for over three miles. He's had several successful hunts in the past few months, but for some reason, his mind keeps going back to that deer he lost to a walker over a year ago, back when the group was still camping at the quarry. Even with his aim locked on the animal, Daryl fears some terrible thing will happen in the half-second his bolt takes to leave the crossbow and hit its target—he’ll miss, a walker will come out of nowhere and bite the deer or spook it, _something._ But even as his heart pounds inside his chest, when he shoots, his hands are steadier than they’ve ever been. The doe falls almost instantly, a sharp bolt piercing through its round eye. 

In the seconds that follow, he’s exultant like a predator that just caught its prey, but the feeling is quickly replaced by frustration and, ultimately, resignation. He’s nearly four miles away from the prison and alone. Going back for a car isn’t an option; he’s too deep in the woods for a car to reach and the deer’s warm body will attract walkers before he’s a hundred yards away. Even if the dead weren’t a problem, there are flies and the animal’s own body heat to consider, both of which can ruin the meat. Daryl muses very little on his situation because there isn’t much to think about. There is only what he needs to do, and stalling won’t change anything. With his hunting knife, he guts the deer from the bottom up, removing the bowels, stomach and windpipe. Then he uses the saw on the back of the knife to cut into the breastbone to get rid of the lungs. He knows he needs to skin the deer soon, but he’s also got a long hike ahead of him, and he’d rather not drag the meat through dirt any more than he has to. 

He takes the rope from his backpack and ties it around the deer’s paws, leaving a strap he can use to pull. Then, he uses the rag from his back pocket to wrap around some of the rope. It’s far from perfect, but at least it won’t chafe him too much where the rope comes in contact with his skin. It’s early morning, and the deer looks barely a hundred pounds—he should make it back to the prison well before noon. All he has to do is keep walking, mind his breathing, and not break rhythm. He can do it. 

He passes the rope over one shoulder and under one arm, like he’s a dog pulling a sledge, and for the next couple hours, he drags the deer back to the prison. Getting back on his feet would be a lot harder after his body had a moment to cool down, so he doesn’t stop to rest not even for a minute. The trickiest part of the journey is not allowing his own weariness to distract him, not letting his hearing go numb by the sounds of his own labored breathing and the constant noise of the animal dragging through the forest behind him. Five or six times he’s forced to pause his hike to clear small clusters of two to five walkers, lured by the inviting trail of blood the deer leaves in its wake. 

By the time he reaches the prison, adrenalin is flowing freely in his body, his movements frantic. He’s so close the fear of losing the deer to a walker increases tenfold. Close to the gate, the concentration of walkers is always bigger than deep in the woods, and Daryl finds himself furiously fighting a crowd that approaches him. The deer lies between the wooden spikes next to the gate, and Daryl stands between the two traps, stabbing skulls and shooting bolts when there’s enough time to reload the crossbow. 

Carl pulls the lever that opens the gate and Maggie comes to Daryl, trying to help him clear a group of walkers ganging up on him, but Daryl is having none of that. 

“Take the deer!” he yells at her, nearly berserk. 

Thankfully, she doesn’t argue and hurries back to the deer, slowly dragging the dead beast into the prison. Her progress is exasperatingly slow, being so smaller than him, but soon Carl is helping her. After that, it’s only minutes until the three of them as well as the deer are safe behind gates. Exhausted like he hasn’t felt in weeks, Daryl falls on his back on the ground, an intoxicating sensation of _victory_ making him feel very alive. His lips curve in a smile as he lies on the grass, covered in blood, sweat, and guts. 

“Dad, dad!” Carl is shouting a few feet away from him. “Hurry! Come see what Daryl got us.” 

A moment later, he sees the shape of a person against the sun. Rick is standing right over him, dirt all the way to his elbows. It’s hard to make out his expression at first, but then Daryl’s eyes adjust, and the look of sheer pride he sees on Rick’s features makes everything better.

* * *

Daryl tries to do the whole job, but only goes as far as skinning the deer before throwing in the towel. Once the frenzy of the hunt is over, incapacitating fatigue falls on him and he can barely stand. His only choice is to trust the task of smoking the meat to some guy from Woodbury who sounds like he’s got some experience with caring for game, but Daryl does so reluctantly. After a thorough but quick shower, he uses what little strength is left in him to get dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt with cut-off sleeves, and drags himself slowly to his room. Once he gets there, he collapses on the mattress and falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow. 

It’s very dark when he wakes up—night must have fallen a couple hours ago. Blinking confused in the darkness, it takes him a moment to catch on to what woke him up—someone just knocked on the door. 

“Come in,” he grunts and it’s a little jarring to hear how raspy his voice sounds. 

The person pushes the door open slowly—it’s Rick, holding a mug with a candle inside it. He shuts the door behind himself and Daryl swallows hard, not knowing what to think. It’s the first time they’re alone since the tool shed. At first, Daryl’s biggest fear was that things were going to change drastically come daylight and they saw each other among the rest of the group, free from alcohol and nighttime’s influence. But during breakfast that morning, things didn’t look any different than what they’d been before Daryl found the tape, before last night; it had come as relief then, but now he isn’t too sure. Not that he expected anything different, but it’s a little unsettling to see Rick acting as if absolutely nothing happened. It’s probably for the best, though; he decided early on that he’d follow Rick’s lead and do whatever the other man did, and if Rick never says anything on the matter, Daryl isn’t going to be the one to bring it up. 

Even so, he waits with baited breath to know what Rick has come here—to his room, conveniently separate from the group’s cells—to say. 

“Won’t you come down for dinner?” is all he has to say. No sudden epiphany about last night that he needs to share. 

“Reckon I was more sleepy than hungry,” Daryl says after a moment and tries to shrug, but then sharp pain shoots through his left shoulder, and he groans like he’s just been stabbed. 

Rick is quickly kneeling next to him on the mattress, the mug with the candle a safe distance from them. 

“What’s wrong? You okay?” he asks. 

The concern in his voice warms Daryl inside in a way he can’t explain. 

Gritting his teeth, Daryl tries to rotate his shoulder inside the socket. He can do it, but the pain soars whenever he attempts a broader movement. The motion makes him grunt a little and Rick fidgets a little next to him. 

“It’s my shoulder,” Daryl explains. “Think I pulled something dragging the deer back here.” He can already tell it’s going to be sore for a few days. If it gets worse or if he’s still feeling it a week from now, he might ask Glenn for one of his ibuprofens, but it’s nothing he can’t handle for now. 

But Rick seems to disagree, reaching out to examine him, and the sudden touch on his shoulder makes Daryl inhale sharply. Rick squeezes the muscle carefully and the pain spreads a little, but it’s the good kind of pain, like whatever is making his shoulder hurt dissolves a little. 

“I can try to rub some of the tension off. Chances are it won’t work and you’ll have to wait for it to heal on its own, but we can give it a shot,” Rick offers. 

Daryl stares at him in silence, noticing absentmindedly how the candlelight casts tall Rick-shaped shadows on the wall. He doesn’t want to misinterpret anything Rick does or says to him—maybe coming here and asking if he’s coming down for dinner, or offering to rub his shoulder, is just him being kind, his way of saying they’re still friends and will always be—but Daryl realizes he doesn’t care about the reason. It’s probably a poor testament to his pride, but he welcomes any excuse to have Rick’s hands on him again. Without a word, he lies on his stomach and waits. He thought he wouldn’t get so nervous the second time around—not that anything is going to happen, not that he’s lain awake in the dark thinking of an imaginary second time—but his heart is fluttering a little. Will that ever stop or he’ll just have to get used to feeling like a he’s got a goddamn heart disease every time he’s around Rick? 

He expects Rick’s fingers on his shoulder to be the first thing he feels, so the sudden pressure on his hips startles him a bit. Rick has just straddled him. Daryl exhales, sensing the man’s weight on top of him. Rick isn’t doing anything other than sit on his buttocks, but it’s enough for Daryl to feel overpowered. Then a rough palm grabs the back of his neck, and it’s almost like a beast staking its claim. The absurd comparison makes Daryl’s face feel hot; it’s just a massage, he shouldn’t be so affected. But Rick finally starts moving his fingers, and the slightest touch gives Daryl goosebumps. Rick traces a curved line down Daryl’s shoulder, digging his thumbs where the sleeveless T-shirt allows him, down to the elbow and back to the neck. It’d be nice if they had something oily to slick the way so Rick’s hands slid easier, but even what’s happening is nearly too much, and Daryl hums, closing his eyes. But then he feels Rick’s blunt nails on his skin and his eyes snap open again, his hum turning into a breathy moan. Rick chuckles and Daryl blushes harder, pressing his lips tight. 

It isn’t some awesome massage or anything, at least not where his pain is concerned. It’s pretty obvious Rick wasn’t moonlighting as a masseuse before the world turned to shit, but even if the pain is still there, Daryl can hardly care about his achy joint when Rick is on top of him, touching him like it’s his right. It’s ridiculous, especially when Rick is barely doing anything, but Daryl can already feel his cock swelling a little, pressed against the mattress. By the time Rick is done and Daryl has to turn around, he better be soft, or there will be no hiding it with the sweatpants he’s wearing. 

Rick shifts on top of him, and the added warmth he feels on his back tells him Rick is bent over him, resting his weight on his hands placed on Daryl’s torso. 

“Is it working?” he asks, hot breath right against Daryl’s neck and ear. 

A moan escapes Daryl’s mouth, but he manages to smother some of the sound on the pillow. 

“A little, I think,” he manages to say a few seconds later, focused on slowing down his breathing. 

“Good,” Rick whispers, sitting back up. The movement makes his crotch press into the flesh of Daryl’s buttocks and there’s no denying the bulge there—Rick is at least half-hard. 

Daryl should have felt justified, more at ease considering he isn’t the only one affected by being close like this, but knowing Rick is mounted on him with a hard cock digging into Daryl's ass cheeks gets him shaking with want. Nervous, he tilts his hips up a little, a shy movement Rick definitely feels against his dick. Rick’s nails keep scratching the skin of Daryl’s upper arm as the man starts to push down. It’s discreet at first, tentative, but it doesn’t take long for him to let go of any hesitation. 

Daryl doesn’t know what to do other than lie there and take whatever Rick gives him, breathing hard into his pillow. Someone who actually knows shit and isn’t as dumb as Daryl might’ve known what’s the protocol for when a guy is on top of you, rubbing his dick so hard on the crack of your ass it’s like he wants to rip a hole through your pants. But Daryl isn’t that person, and all he can do is let him, give himself to Rick, torn between lifting his ass higher for more contact with Rick and pressing his own cock against the mattress. The two of them move more rhythmically now, and Daryl notices how all the rubbing has shifted their positions a little. Rick isn’t straddling him anymore; he’s lying between Daryl’s parted legs instead, one hand screwed in his hair while the other has a firm grip on his thigh. They roll their hips in tandem, and Rick touches a wet tongue to the back of Daryl's neck, sliding it all way to his ear shell. 

Daryl thinks he’s going to bite him or lick him there, but he feels Rick’s warm breath instead. 

“Reckon I better help you take care of this,” he says, worming the hand that was on Daryl’s thigh between his body and the mattress, cupping him through the sweatpants. 

Daryl moans again, and this time, not even the pillow pushed against his mouth is able to fully smother the sound. Behind him, Rick laughs, and when he speaks again, he punctuates his words with careful tugs on his cock, milking Daryl for all he’s worth. 

“Wouldn’t want you to put any more strain on that shoulder of yours,” he says, words making Daryl shake as much as the hard-on rubbing on his ass and the hand stroking his cock. 

Daryl wants nothing more than for Rick to stop fooling around and touch him for real; it’d be so easy with the elastic on his waistband being so worn—one movement and that teasing hand would be on his skin. But Daryl will wait—he’ll let Rick give him whatever he wants to give him, as fast or slow as Rick wants to. Last night in the tool shed, Daryl waited and didn’t come to regret his patience. Maybe, if Daryl is good today and waits, Rick will take care of him again. 

But then Rick tries to take his T-shirt off, and Daryl’s every muscle tense at once, his hips freezing their frantic movement. Rick stops as well, but his hand doesn’t leave the T-shirt’s hem. They take a moment like that, Rick’s solid body weighing heavy and hot on him. Daryl turns his face to the side and tries to look back at him, but their position makes it a little difficult. Rick bends down and kisses him where his mouth can reach: on the neck, right below his ear, a wet kiss that grounds him some. Daryl closes his eyes, nervous, heart hammering inside his chest, but nods very slowly. 

Rick’s left hand gives his dick an encouraging squeeze, while the right one lifts Daryl’s T-shirt. Some squirming and a few clumsy seconds later, the T-shirt is on the floor next to the mattress. Daryl opens his eyes again and doesn’t feel as exposed as he imagined, the weak light coming from the candle helping him not to feel too much on the spot. He wishes Rick was shirtless too, but before he can suggest anything, Rick’s mouth between his shoulder blades makes it very hard to talk. 

Rick kisses him there, but it’s more tongue than kiss. He never thought of his spine as a sexual thing, but right now, it’s nearly as sensitive as his cock. Every kiss, every touch of Rick’s tongue on his back makes him pant softly against his pillow. All the while, Rick acts like he doesn’t see the scars, but Daryl knows he does. Even in the candlelight, Rick can’t _not see_ them. But they don’t make Rick go limp, don’t make Rick do something stupid, like pull back and ask Daryl if he wants to talk about it. He just keeps mouthing Daryl’s skin, and Daryl can’t even form a rational thought, not when Rick’s mouth is on the small of his back and Daryl can’t do anything but tilt his hips higher and higher, until his ass is up in the air while his upper chest stays on the mattress. It doesn’t make his shoulder hurt worse, but even if it did, Daryl wouldn’t give a shit, not now. 

Rick lets go of his dick and the protest is on the tip of Daryl’s tongue, but then Rick’s fingers hook on the waistband of his sweatpants, and any complaint he might’ve had dies in his throat. Rick lowers his pants until his mid-thighs, his cock bouncing free. A thought comes to him all of a sudden: all of this kind of started when Daryl found the tape and couldn’t stop thinking about Rick baring it all like the cover said. But now Daryl is the one on display, naked, exposed, dick so hard it keeps giving these helpless little twitches, a thin layer of sweat covering his body. When Rick places a warm hand on his inner thigh, Daryl realizes he likes this development better. 

Kneeling behind him, Rick kisses the small of his back at the same time as his hand closes around Daryl’s dick, its head peeking through the foreskin, the slit oozing precome the moment Rick strokes him. Daryl muffles another whimper into the pillow, unable to keep silent no matter how much he tries. But Rick’s mouth doesn’t stop there; it keeps sliding down, leaving a trail of saliva behind, down until the tip of Rick’s tongue touches Daryl’s tailbone. 

“Rick, wha— _ah_ —” The rest of his question turns into a groan as he bites on his bottom lip in an attempt not to be so loud. 

Rick’s mouth is on his asshole. Sometimes it’s the tongue tracing the rim or pushing in as deep as it goes, trying to lick inside, but sometimes it’s Rick’s lips there, sucking and kissing his hole. Rick’s hands are just as busy, the left one pulling one of Daryl’s ass cheeks apart, spreading him open the best he can, while the right one jerks him off slowly now. The pillow is soggy against Daryl’s cheek with how much he’s been drooling on it. Daryl tries to say something like _please, don’t_ and _stop,_ but he’s shaking too badly, and the only word that gets out is a throaty _please_ , which he then repeats nonstop, hips stuttering back softly against Rick’s face. Why he even bothered trying to protest is a mystery considering this is the single best thing anyone has ever done to him, and _fuck_ , he thought Rick pinching his nipple had been hot. He wonders if this is something people do or something _Rick_ does—either way, it’s nasty. Which makes it even hotter, Daryl realizes, his face on fire. 

But then, exactly when Daryl is dangerously close to coming, Rick’s mouth and hands leave him, and Daryl groans in frustration. Looking back over his shoulder, he sees Rick opening his pants, the clinking sound of his belt’s buckle loud in the room. When Rick pulls his cock out, it’s angry red, hard, swollen. Daryl swallows dry, heart racing. It’s going to happen now; he shouldn’t be so surprised. Why would Rick have spent twenty minutes eating his ass if not for this? His asshole and even the cleft are drenched in spit, but he still isn’t sure that alone is enough for Rick to fuck him in the ass. As nervous as he is, he’s still blindingly hard, though. Daryl realizes he won’t object to being fucked, if that’s what Rick really wants. It’ll probably hurt a little, but it can’t be that bad when so many people do it, right? 

When Rick’s dick touches his crack, Daryl inhales sharply, bracing himself. But instead of pushing in, Rick thrusts upwards, sliding between Daryl’s cheeks. When he does it again, Daryl can tell the exact moment the head grazes his spit-slick hole without going in. For a few moments, Daryl stays tense, anticipating the second he’ll be speared with cock, but that time never comes. The only thing going on is that mind-blowing friction between his ass cheeks. Rick’s breathing is heavy next to Daryl’s ear. 

But then Rick stops altogether right when Daryl was starting to relax, pulling back just enough to pull Daryl’s buttocks apart again. After having the man’s mouth there, it makes little sense to get all shy just because Rick wants an eyeful, but his muscles tense all the same. Then it dawns on him that Rick can probably see him tightening up there too, and he does it again, on purpose this time. Being on display like this is quickly becoming a turn-on, despite the embarrassment—or because of it. 

“Fuck, _Daryl_ ,” Rick says and Daryl loves how unstable he sounds. 

Holding him open, Rick spits generously on his tailbone, and Daryl can feel the liquid dripping down his cleft. This time, when Rick resumes his position behind Daryl, hard-on fitting snugly between his cheeks, he sneaks one hand under Daryl’s body to touch his cock. Rick jerks him off slowly, but Daryl doesn’t need much; a few strokes is all it takes before he’s coming on the thin sheet underneath him. Rick lets go of his dick and holds on to Daryl’s hips with both hands, grip strong and possessive as he gives a series of short, fast thrusts. Daryl hears Rick’s orgasm—violent pants and a low groan—before he feels it—wet warmth coating his asshole and his balls, marking him as Rick’s. 

The moment Rick’s hands are off his hips, Daryl can’t hold himself up anymore and he lies on his stomach, avoiding the wet spot on the sheet. He closes his eyes for a moment, the afterglow making him feel he’s on cloud nine. 

In the darkness of his closed eyelids, he feels Rick’s prying fingers on his buttocks again. 

“I sure made a mess on you.” 

Eyes still closed, a shy smile tugs at the corners of Daryl’s lips. 

Rick lets go of Daryl’s buttocks and slaps one of them casually. The sting of his palm lingers, though, making Daryl want more of… something. 

“You got something I can clean you with?” 

Absent-minded, Daryl points one finger blindly around the room. “There’s a clean rag in my backpack.” 

It’s only two seconds after he hears the zipper being dragged that he realizes what he just said. He turns around, trying to sit up with his sweatpants still around his thighs. 

Rick is standing in the middle of the room, jeans unbuttoned just like last night in the shed. His eyes are narrowed and his brow is furrowed. 

He turns to face Daryl and says very slowly, “Where did you get this?” 

The old tape is in his hands.


	4. The Implications of Taking Lube Home

Rick and Daryl stand in the middle of the room, staring at each other. Daryl’s mind is frenetically searching for things to say, ways he can justify having that tape in his possession, but nothing comes to the surface. He examines Rick’s expression for signs of anger or indignation, but can’t read past the superficial layer of confusion exposed there. But before anyone can say anything on the matter, a noise steals their attention: a rhythmic knocking on the concrete floor echoes through the prison somewhere in the distance, maybe by the end of the corridor. 

It takes Daryl a few seconds to place the sound, but then there’s no mistaking it: the regular _thud thud thud_ they’re hearing is Hershel’s prosthetic leg hitting the floor as he walks. Daryl casts a nervous glance to the door—it had been unlocked the entire time Rick was on top of him, doing delicious and embarrassing things to his body, and not once crossed his mind the possibility of someone walking in on them. Feeling his hands growing cold at the prospect of getting caught, he pulls his sweatpants up, grimacing at the sticky feeling between his ass cheeks. Rick also seems to have caught on to the source of the noise, buttoning himself up with uncharacteristic haste and taking the candle he’d left in a corner of the room, now more than halfway melted.

Rick is still holding on to the tape when he grabs the doorknob, and Daryl wonders nonsensically for a moment if the man is taking it with him. Rick looks briefly at the tape in his hand and frowns, probably asking himself the same thing, before he drops it carelessly on the floor. The room sinks in darkness once Rick leaves with the candle, closing the door behind himself.

He doesn’t say good-bye and he doesn’t look back at Daryl before leaving either.

From a distance, Daryl can hear the indistinct sounds of Rick’s and Hershel’s voices, but there is no telling what they’re saying. Fumbling his way through the room, he manages to find the lamp as well as his lighter. Now that the room isn’t pitch-black anymore, he can see the tape abandoned next to the door, and something in the in models’ smiles on the cover makes it seem like they’re mocking him.

* * *

When Daryl comes down for breakfast the next morning, Rick isn’t there; it’s nothing unexpected—his mornings as a farmer tend to start way earlier than anybody else’s. At first, Daryl is mildly relieved that they don’t need to face each other so soon, but it’s not long before that initial relief starts looking stupid, because really, what was Rick going to do? Scold him in front of the whole group for keeping a copy of his secret sex tape? All in all, maybe Daryl is making too big a deal out of it. So what if Daryl found out about Rick’s low-budget porn? Does it really matter after how far he had the man’s tongue up his ass, for Christ’s sakes? 

Still, the way things ended last night left him with a bitter taste in his mouth—a cut off feeling he can’t shake off. Daryl had come down for dinner shortly after Rick left his room, then stayed in the cafeteria afterwards going over the details of the next day’s run with Glenn, Sasha, Tyreese, and Michonne. After they were gone, he lingered for quite a while, waxing his crossbow and tightening its every nut and bolt a dozen times over, but there was no sign of Rick. He considered going looking for him, but decided against it in the end—what would he say if he found him, anyway? Back in his room, he stayed up for another hour, rereading for the fifth time some magazine on motorcycles, but no one came knocking on his door. 

The deer he brought home yesterday is a big hit among the group, he notices during breakfast—an outdoors barbecue, all of them enjoying the cool wind that blows in the yard. They’ve eaten venison on every single meal so far, and nobody seems to be getting sick of it anytime soon. As nice as it is to see they value Daryl’s offerings, it’s a little depressing to see something he worked his ass off for will barely last them a week. All he can do is hope they get lucky again soon—hopefully today, at the Big Spot.

After the weirdest interaction with that kid who’s Carl’s friend—is it Patrick, his name?—Carol takes him to the edge of the prison grounds to discuss the walkers situation. The rotten sons of bitches are clustering together as of late, instead of spreading out, leaning pretty heavily against the fences, and things can get shitty fast if they don’t find a way to draw them somewhere else. But the food and supply situation is bound to get a lot shittier a lot faster unless they stay on top of their game, so the folks in the prison will have to figure out who is going on today’s run and who’s staying home, smashing undead skulls.

Zach helps him load one of the cars they’re driving to the supermarket and the kid’s breath and clothes all stink of stolen Marlboros. Beth walks by them and Daryl is within earshot to hear some of their lovey-dovey crap about who says good-bye to whom.

“Damn romance novel,” he says to no one in particular as he loads a few crates in the truck, seeing her walk away.

No one ever says anything special to him when he leaves through the gates, which in his book, is a damn good sign, he reckons. People would feel a lot more need to keep saying sentimental shit every time he stepped outside if they didn’t trust his ability to keep himself alive. As cold as that may feel sometimes, maybe that’s the biggest act of faith people can show him.

Still, he goes through a moment of inner debate when he’s about to leave and sees Rick by the gates, talking to Michonne, but he chooses to park his bike next to them in the end. In a way, he’s grateful for her presence; despite the rocky start they had with all the shit that went down between Merle and her, she’s become a source of calm to him. He feels he can stop and take a breath if ever needs to, because she’s there to hold the fort with him now that they don’t have a single leader. Right now, her presence takes away some of the tension he’d have felt talking to Rick on his own.

He greets her and the two of them exchange a few words about the search for the Governor—they both know they probably won’t find him anymore, not after all this time, but they talk about it just the same. Daryl waits for Rick to put his two cents in, but the man keeps his silence even when Michonne offers to go alone all the way to fucking Macon, over seventy miles of walkers and who knows what else, after a man who’s got maggots crawling out of his ass, for all they know.

Working up his courage, he turns to Rick and says, “I'm gonna go check out the Big Spot. The one I was talking about, just seein’.”

He sure doesn’t need anyone to hold his hand and say a soppy good-bye to him every time he steps outside, but maybe they ought to say _something_ to each other when he’s statistically riding towards his death. You might be good and you might have skills, but sometimes your luck is shit and the universe just fucks you over, and then what are you going to do?

Rick must have taken his words as an invitation to tag along, instead of a simple _Hey, going on a run. See ya when I get back, or… y’know, just see ya_ , because he says in a dismissive way, “Yeah, I gotta go out and check the snares. I don't wanna lose whatever we catch to the walkers.”

Daryl shouldn’t feel bad about it. It’s probably got more to do with whatever reason made Rick stop going out there and carrying his gun at all than anything to do with Daryl or the tape, but it still gives him a weird feel of rejection—and how the hell can he feel rejected when he didn’t even ask anything?

Michonne jumps on the offer Rick has just passed, and the moment she walks away to get on her horse, all the tension her presence kept at bay comes crashing in. Daryl swallows hard, feeling his throat a little tight, and revs up the bike’s engine. He can’t think of anything else to say, so he raises his hand, planning on giving a friendly pat to Rick’s shoulder, anything to ease the tension, but it turns into a weird touch on his stomach when Rick flinches away from him.

Daryl’s face reddens and he keeps his eyes looking straight ahead when he rides through the open gates.

* * *

The Big Spot’s surroundings are unnervingly calm when they get there. It’s more or less what they expected, though, after the stunt Sasha pulled a couple days ago—a risky thing to do on your own, but definitely a smart idea drawing out the walkers with a boom box. The group lingers in the parking lot for a bit, killing time as they wait for their presence to draw out dead ones that might still be lurking inside. 

It doesn’t take long for it to happen. Zach has just spent his daily guess on what Daryl used to do before the apocalypse. Today’s theory was homicide cop. The previous week, the kid had tried mechanic, personal trainer ( _Can you blame me, man? Look at your arms!_ ), and construction worker. This time, the guess is as far off as all the ones before it, but a smirk creeps up his lips. These young kids see him in a light so different from what he’s used to; it feels weird, but he’d take that any day over what those same kids would probably have thought of him before the Turn. He plays along the dude’s ridiculous guess for a moment, to Michonne’s amusement, and it’s all fun and banter until a walker smashes into the window behind them, and then it’s time to go to work. 

They make a quick sweep, taking out the handful of walkers that come towards them inside. They aren’t stupid to think that’s all of them; odds are there’s over a dozen more hidden in refrigerator rooms, maintenance areas, and other employees only parts of the store, but they don’t need to go exploring today. The aisles are packed full of valuable items and they’ll have plenty to carry back home as it is. Each of them takes a cart, ready to go shopping in cautious tranquility. 

Daryl has just passed the electronics, and there are only a few things in his cart—lots of batteries, four new flashlights, and two pairs of walkie-talkies. He wants to check the automotive section for a battery for his bike, but decides to make a quick stop on hygiene first. He’d feel kind of a jackass asking for shit to people going on runs, but since he’s here, maybe he can find some icy hot for his shoulder. It hadn’t felt that bad loading the crossbow this morning, but he’d rather have something in case it hurts again. Maybe the massage Rick gave him was good for something, after all. Well, it _was_ good for a lot of things, but maybe it was for his shoulder too. 

He browses unhurriedly through the aisle, tossing a shaving cream and some new deodorant in the cart when something on the top shelf makes him stop in his tracks. There is a large stock of Astroglide there, in two versions, one that’s water based and a second one that promises you a “tingling sensation with a new invigorating warming formula.” Daryl stands there, staring at the colorful bottles. Taking one of them and shoving it into his backpack would be a lot faster and definitely more discreet than taking his time, debating on the implications of taking lube home. He should just take it and worry about it later, but Daryl’s mind always runs on its own. 

There’s no use in fooling himself thinking he’s going to use that to jerk off; he’s been managing pretty well with his own spit ever since he was eleven and that isn’t going to change now. The memory of Rick’s heavy body on top of him keeps invading his thoughts, and the fact he’s thinking about it now should tell him all he needs to know, but still. The two times something happened between them had been a spur of the moment type of thing, as planned on Daryl’s part as slamming his toe on a desk leg this morning had been. Taking the Astroglide home means he’s actively planning for it, means he wishes something will happen. It’s admitting… Admitting something he didn’t even consider admitting before. He still doesn’t consider it, at least not out loud, but what’s the point of denying it in his head? After all that’s happened, what good is that token denial, when he never feels more alive than when he’s with Rick? 

Taking a deep breath, Daryl grabs two bottles at once, because why the hell not, and shoves them into his backpack. 

He’s just closed the zipper when there is a loud noise of glass shattering and soon all hell breaks loose.

* * *

The ride back home is silent. They eat on the road, each one munching quietly on whatever snack they had swiped from the store before it all went to shit. Back at the prison, they go straight to the council meeting. Rick is not there. Daryl usually thinks those meetings are an unending drag, even if he knows they’re necessary. Today, though, it’s downright insufferable. He gets it that people who weren’t there need to know what happened, but having to go through everything that went down is something he’d rather not do. And to add insult to injury, the fact remains that they still need to go back to the Big Spot soon—even after what happened, even after Zach died ten minutes after hanging with him and Michonne, saying shit about him being a fucking homicide cop. Because even with the walkers and the chopper crashing into the store, right now, it’s still their best shot at finding supplies, and isn’t that fucked up? 

Having been the last person to actually talk to Zach before he died makes him volunteer to break the news to Beth. A terrible offer to make, because he’s already shit with words, and even more so when they’re so loaded. But it was _his_ cigarettes the kid was always stealing, so Daryl owes him that much, doesn’t he? But it turns out he barely needs words at all for Beth to catch his meaning. She doesn’t exactly shrug once she hears her boyfriend is dead, but it comes close. Daryl wants to believe it’s just shock, but then she tells him she doesn’t cry anymore. Smart move, all things considered, but it still looks so damn cold. 

She gives him the second most awkward hug of his life—the first one being what Merle gave him the first time they saw each other after his older brother left him alone with their pa—and says she’s happy she didn’t say good-bye because she hates good-byes. Daryl finds himself agreeing, but he’s not so sure. If he’d been the one to die that afternoon, what would Rick have felt when their last interaction was that weird belly pat? Would Rick cry or just change the numbers in a damn work safety sign? It wouldn’t matter to Daryl because he’d be dead, but if Rick didn’t care, what did that say about the friendship they have today? On the other hand, friends don’t want friends to be in pain, and Rick is his friend. So, after all, maybe it’d be better for everyone involved if Rick didn’t cry should Daryl bite the big one any time soon. 

After showering, Daryl doesn’t go to dinner and heads straight to his room instead. He’s still got a few protein bars in case he gets hungry, and he’s not in the mood for being stuck in a room with so many long faces. No one ever says anything, and it’s probably all in Daryl’s mind, but every time shit happens during a run and someone dies, it seems to him like everyone who wasn’t there looks at people who were like they’re asking, “Couldn’t you have done something?” The worst part of it all is that quite often Daryl’s treacherous mind comes up with at least five different things he could have done differently that maybe, _just maybe_ , might’ve meant someone got to live.

At least today he’s tired enough that he falls asleep before he can think too much.

* * *

Daryl wakes up all of a sudden, thinking he heard a knock on his door, but can say for certain if it really happened of if it was just his imagination. He waits in silence for a second knock, eyes wide open in the darkness, but it never comes. He’s almost convinced that whatever started him out of sleep was one of those dreams where you’re falling, but then he hears a whisper. 

“Daryl?” 

Rick’s voice on the other side of the door chases away any trace of sleepiness left in him and Daryl is on his feet the next second, opening the door just enough to let the man in. He’s got no lamp with him this time, probably not wanting to draw attention to the fact he’s walking through that side of the prison at night. Daryl turns his back on him, and pats across the floor until he finds his own lantern and the lighter, using the short amount of time he takes to light it to try and calm his nerves. He places the now lit lamp back to its corner of the room, and turns around to face Rick, waiting solemnly. 

They stare at each other and Daryl braces himself for whatever Rick is going to say, with no hope he’s going to like what he hears, but then Rick pushes him against the wall, locking him in place with his own body. 

Daryl lets out a shaky breath—it’s happening again, he gets to feel this at least one more time—but Rick’s touch isn’t lust-filled like Daryl thought it would be. Pressing him against the wall, Rick’s buries his nose in Daryl’s hair, the mouth touching his ear. When Rick speaks, his voice sounds low and a little tired. 

“I had the weirdest day today,” he whispers. “When I was out there checking the snares, I saw a woman and she—it was—” He swallows. “We get so close to losing it all. Each other. Who we are. And when I got here, Hershel told me what happened on the run, what you all said in the meeting and—” 

Rick cuts himself short, resting his lips on Daryl’s earlobe, taking deep inhales and exhaling in long puffs. Breathing so close to his skin, Rick must be really taking in Daryl’s smell, and Daryl can’t help wondering what that feels like to the other man. 

“I wanted to come here as soon as I found out, but everyone was still up and—” 

“It’s okay. You’re here now,” Daryl says. 

Even with the way Rick’s body is pressed flush against his, chests and thighs and stomachs touching, he feels a little guilty to be getting hard—it feels a bit like forcing the moment into something it’s not. 

But then Rick’s lips close on that point in Daryl’s neck where his skin is so thin, and the guilt fades away. It lasts all of two seconds, and a second kiss follows the first, a little more to the side, right on Daryl’s jawline. When the third one touches the corner of his mouth, Daryl hesitantly lets one of his hands fondle the back of Rick’s neck. 

But Rick doesn’t kiss him a fourth time, at least not immediately. Instead, he touches the tip of his sharp nose on Daryl’s blunt one, and they lock eyes in the lantern’s half-light. Daryl suddenly feels on edge, anticipating what is about to happen, but at the same time, having a hard time believing it. It’s a small eternity until Rick’s lips touch his own, and a lifetime more before they close their eyes, moving their mouths together. 

Daryl isn’t good with kisses—he’s even less experienced with those than he is with fucking—but Rick makes it so it doesn’t matter. All Daryl has to do is respond to the possessive way the man moves against him, parting his lips when the tongue forces its way inside, and offering his own when Rick sucks it into his mouth. Their thighs are now between each other’s, and Daryl can feel he’s not the only one who’s hard. 

“Not feeling you like this again, ready to fall apart every time I touch you—” Rick whispers against his mouth in the middle of a kiss, his thigh pressing a little harder between Daryl’s legs. “I couldn’t accept that.” 

The way Rick is talking, it almost seems like Daryl is the only one who reacts so fast to their touches, but Rick’s cock, rock-hard against his hipbone, tells him otherwise. 

Breaking their kiss is the last thing Daryl wants, but now that he’s opened his eyes, he can’t stop looking at the door in front of him, thinking of how they were almost caught red-handed the night before. 

“We gotta—” he starts, but Rick chooses that moment to pinch one of his nipples, and Daryl loses his trail of thought entirely, his sentence dissolving into a moan. 

Fingers just teasing the rigid nub, Rick urges him on. “You were saying?” His hips and thigh follow his fingers movements, undulating on Daryl’s hardness. 

Daryl closes his eyes and throws his head back distractedly, hitting the wall behind him with a loud _thud_ , but not even the dull pain spreading through his skull is enough to pull him back from how lost he is to Rick’s teasing. 

“C’mon, Daryl, it’s not that hard,” Rick says, as his other hand slides down Daryl’s back, slipping into his pants and squeezing one of his buttocks hard. “You were trying to tell me something we gotta to do.” Rick pauses long enough to suck Daryl’s bottom lip between his teeth and let go. “What’s so important?”

Daryl focuses very hard on his own mouth, in his ability to form syllables with it, and not on how his lips ache from Rick’s kisses.

“The door,” he pants. “Push the desk in front of it.”

Against a corner of the room, there’s a work desk, still littered with papers and documents from whatever guard had last manned it, that Daryl never bothered doing anything about.

He knows it’s a sensible suggestion to make, but when Rick steps away from him, the sudden absence of a mouth against his, of diabolical fingers on his nipple, of a rough hand on his ass, and a hard cock against his hips… it makes Daryl groan quietly in frustration. Rick gives a short laugh.

“Atta boy. Aren’t you clever? Say, why don’t you get naked for me while I take care of that?” he says, already pulling and dragging the desk across the room, not even bothering with giving Daryl a second look, so sure he is that that his command will be attended.

Daryl pulls the shirt over his head without undoing the buttons, taking his pants off next, leaving his clothes in a heap on the floor. Having Rick bossing him around like that makes him eager to obey, to know what Rick will tell him to do next, and what the reward will be for each time he follows the rules. When Rick looks back at him, door properly barred, Daryl feels feverish being naked like that in front of a man who’s fully dressed. There’s yearning in Rick’s face as he takes in Daryl’s body, eyes traveling from his leaking cock to the hard nipples, and it leaves Daryl feeling strangely powerful in his submissive position.

Rick approaches him again, standing close enough that he can feel the heat radiating from the other man’s body. It’d be easy enough to close the distance and join their mouths and bodies again, but what Daryl aches for is to be the object of Rick’s demands. He wants to feel at the man’s mercy, even if he knows it would only take a word to make it all stop. But Daryl doesn’t want to say that word, whatever it is. It’s actually quite the opposite—he’s willing to say any and every word that will keep Rick going.

“You deserve a treat for being so careful,” Rick says. “Ask me anything.”

It makes Daryl’s head spin how Rick can go from worried affection to such a commanding tone in minutes. He thinks of the bottle of Astroglide in his backpack and almost brings it up, but as much as he wants it, he’s also afraid of taking the first step into unexplored terrain.

So asks instead, voice sounding a lot hoarser than usual, “Mouth.”

He knows Rick’s heard him. They’re too close not to understand anything either of them says. So the fact Rick nears his lips to Daryl’s mouth and says, “What did you say, Daryl?” is just a proof the man wants to hear him beg just as much as Daryl himself wants to plead—no, that isn’t right. Daryl doesn’t just wants to beg; he wants Rick to make him beg.

So he says it again, voice a little firmer now, but just as needy. “Mouth. Want your mouth. Please.”

“That’s what I thought,” Rick says.

The man falls to his knees, and Daryl thinks he’s going to turn him around, push him against the wall, and hold him open while he tongues Daryl’s hole as eagerly as last time. But the first thing he feels is Rick’s palm on his dick, pulling the foreskin back, and he barely has time to register that touch before Rick’s mouth is surrounding the head, sliding down along the shaft, swallowing more and more of his cock. Daryl’s moan starts low in his throat, but it gets louder with each inch of his that sinks into that warm, wet heaven. He’s starting to feel the best kind of stupid every time he thinks something is the best thing he could ever feel, and then comes Rick and proves him wrong.

It can’t be easy to have Daryl’s cock so far down his mouth—Daryl’s not blind, he knows he’s got a sizeable length—but Rick’s efforts are impressive. Still, he gags a little and coughs, and Daryl pulls back at once, worried the constant fluttering of his hips might have hurt him. But then Rick looks up and everything about him—from his lips, already swollen from just a few seconds doing that, to the look of pure challenge in his eyes, obviously not bothered in the least that he’s just gagged himself on cock—gets Daryl’s legs so weak he needs to hold on to Rick’s shoulders to keep from falling.

When Rick takes him back into his mouth, he does it slower this time, keeping his mouth on the tip while he strokes the shaft and fuck, that’s almost harder to take than being half-buried in that hot mouth. The teasing feels at the same time better and worse than actually getting sucked in earnest, and Daryl wonders if anything in his life that wasn’t Rick has ever made him feel so good. He doubts it—he’d never let go of something like that. He must be so wet right now. He’s got no way of knowing because Rick’s mouth doesn’t leave his dick, sucking on the head and looking up at him, paying attention to Daryl’s face, but Daryl knows he’s probably leaking like an old faucet and Rick must be feeling it all on his tongue—and if Rick’s delicious mouth wasn’t already making him wet like a girl, just that thought would have taken care of it.

Rick must’ve noticed how close Daryl’s legs are to giving out, because he maneuvers them carefully until Daryl is lying on his back on the mattress, thighs parted as wide as they go, giving Rick all access he needs. But when Rick takes his mouth off his dick and moves down to his balls, mouthing one and then the other, hand jerking him off softly, Daryl can’t stop wishing Rick would move even lower. He wants to ask and in some hidden corner of his mind, he knows Rick likes to hear him asking, but it takes him a while to summon up the courage to say his piece.

“Do—” he starts, but Rick’s hand gives a delicious stroke to his dick, a softly twisting thing, and Daryl’s voice gets caught in his throat. He’s pretty sure it was on purpose. “Do—do that thing with your tongue,” he’s finally able to say.

Rick lifts his head and looks at him, their eyes locking while his hand keeps moving gently, just so Daryl won’t forget it’s still there.

“What’s the magic word?” Rick asks.

Daryl licks his lips and says, “Please.” But Rick just stares at him like he hasn’t said anything, and Daryl sees a dare in that silence. Heart hammering in his chest and face hotter than ever, he adds, “Your tongue... in my ass. Please— _oh_ —”

The words are barely out of his mouth and Rick has already pushed his legs out of the way, putting his tongue where Daryl wants it so. If Daryl thought knowing how it would feel like would take any of the pleasure away, he’s sorely mistaken. The moment Rick’s tongue pushes against his asshole, the only word in his brain is _more._ He doesn’t know what to do with his hands; he wants to grab Rick’s hair and pull the man’s face against his ass cheeks, but that can’t be an okay thing to do, so he settles for grabbing the back of his own knees, pulling them backwards, opening himself up more and offering his body as best as he can for that hungry mouth that devours him.

But then Rick pulls back, body, mouth and all, and Daryl opens his eyes to see him kneeling in front of him. His pants are open and his cock is out, hard in his hand, and Daryl didn’t even hear him unzipping. Rick’s expression staring at him makes Daryl want to cover up and spread himself open even wider at the same time. Daryl almost protests the absence of Rick’s mouth on him, but the urge to submit is bigger. Rick holds Daryl’s cock and balls in a firm grip, his thumb sliding down a little and grazing the spit-slick hole, with just enough pressure enough that it teases him but doesn’t breach in. Daryl closes his eyes briefly again, moaning and pulling his legs back to the point his knees are almost touching his shoulders.

Rick smiles at him.

“Do you want this, Daryl?” he asks, but he’s already let go of Daryl’s cock, and is pushing an index finger inside him slowly.

It stretches and burns, and it’s absolutely nothing like what Daryl is used to, but it doesn’t feel bad either. It’s the exact opposite of bad; he and Rick are getting as close as two people can get, the other man literally getting inside his body—how could any of that be bad?

Daryl doesn’t say yes and he doesn’t say no either. Instead, the only word out of his mouth is _more_ along with short gasps with how labored his breathing has become. But Rick doesn’t give him more—at least not at once. That index finger slides in and out several times, so slowly it’s almost torture, feeling a lot bigger than a finger has any right to be. Daryl loves every second of it.

“More of what, Daryl?” Rick asks, the finger up his ass fucking him faster now. “You have to say it right, or else I can’t know what you want. Come on, you know how to do it. You begged so pretty just now.”

Daryl swallows hard. Rick is a fair man, a man who keeps his promises. If Daryl asks right, he’ll give Daryl what he wants. Isn’t that how it works?

But instead of saying _more fingers_ or _faster_ and _harder_ , all of them words that are flashing non-stop in his mind, Daryl finds himself saying, “I got—there’s—fuck—there’s something in my backpack. For you. If you want,” he finishes, face flushed.

Rick smiles at him, curiosity gleaming in his eyes in a way that tells him Daryl wasn’t anywhere clear enough in his message to let the man know _what_ was in his backpack after all. He pulls his hand free to reach for the backpack and Daryl almost regrets the suggestion. Rick fumbles through the backpack for a few seconds until he finally finds the bottle of lube. Then he looks from the Astroglide in his hand to Daryl’s face and that’s enough for Daryl to look away, embarrassed.

Rick doesn’t say anything, not immediately. Instead, he pops the cap open and Daryl hears a squirting sound, followed by a cold touch on his hole. Rick pushes two fingers in this time, slowly so it doesn’t hurt, but it’s too sudden so Daryl really feels the difference.

When the two of them are buried deep within him, Rick tries to move closer to Daryl, like he wants to whisper something in his ear, but the change in position makes the fingers scissoring inside him shift and rub against something inside him, and his body clenches tight, his hips lifting off the mattress. Rick abandons whatever he meant to say and gives Daryl a once-over, glancing from his own hand to Daryl’s face. Rick moves his fingers again, but it’s not the same—close, but not quite—and Daryl groans quietly. The sensation was hard to understand—like something shot from behind his balls all the way though his body up to his fucking heart, so good and so all-consuming he’s almost scared of feeling it again. But Rick is having none of that, probing with his fingers, eyes so tuned to Daryl’s face it makes him want to hide. He tries, pushing his face against the crook of Rick’s neck, but Rick uses his free hand to pull Daryl’s hair back.

“Lemme see, c’mon,” Rick whispers. “You look so good like this. Why wouldn’t you let me see?”

Daryl blushes and pushes himself against the fingers inside him, and that movement combined with Rick’s scissoring makes them find that spot again. When Rick realizes he struck gold, he starts to fingerfuck that place harder and harder until Daryl is nothing but a writhing mess on the mattress.

Rick lets go of Daryl’s hair and a squirting sound tells him Rick just squeezed more lube on his fingers, each thrust carrying more of it into Daryl. When a third digit joins the other two, Daryl mutters a low _fuck_ under his breath and hopes his ridiculously open legs send the message he wants Rick to understand.

Rick’s eyes are focused on Daryl’s hole, but when he looks up and they stare at each other, for a second, he doesn’t look so in charge anymore.

“You wanna come fucking yourself on my hand?”

“I want you,” Daryl says. “Want you inside me.”

But that’s not going to cut it, not with the way Rick is looking at him, fingers circling that sweet spot inside of him.

“I’m already inside you. At least my fingers are. Have to be more specific if you got something else in mind.”

Fuck, it feels delicious, but at the same time it’s a constant sensation of not enough, like he’s never tipping over. A little more of this and he’s going to lose his mind.

He must’ve already lost it, because shame abandons him just enough to say, “Your cock. Just—” Then it all leaves his mouth in a torrent. “Fuck. Y’know what I want. Fuck me.” He swallows hard, and adds for good measure, “Please.”

“Fuck, Daryl,” Rick says and he bends down to kiss his neck, fingers sliding out of his ass. Daryl then feels the smile against his skin. “Don’t suppose you got something else in your backpack besides lube?”

Daryl frowns, confused for a moment, not knowing what Rick means until it dawns on him. Fucking condoms. If there was lube at the Big Spot, rubbers were probably nearby, but he only thought to get the lube. He looks at Rick a little worried. He’d hate it if that was a deal-breaker for them, if they had to stop right now because he was too stupid to grab a pack of condoms. If Rick says he won’t, Daryl supposes he’ll just have to deal with it, but it’s a lot harder after he’s got that small taste of what getting fucked feels like.

“You still want me to fuck you?” Rick asks, body already between Daryl’s thighs.

Daryl wants to; he should know better, but he wants it more than anything. He wants it just like that, with nothing between them, so when Rick comes inside him, he can feel all of it.

“I want to. Fuck me raw.”

The moment Rick places his cock against his ass, the head already threatens to slide in a little. Daryl might have a virgin hole, but those fingers fucked him open good. But when Rick finally puts pressure behind his hips, nothing could have prepared Daryl for the feeling of being invaded, being conquered like that. It burns a little, but there’s also an ache coming from deep within him, making him eager to have it all inside him.

“Fuck,” Rick gasps once he bottoms out, both of them taking a moment to enjoy the new feeling. “I wish I had taken my clothes off. Wish I could feel your sweat on my skin. God, you feel so hot on my cock right now.”

Daryl’s cheeks burn bright at the words. It’s something dirty to say and it makes him a little uncomfortable, but he still wants more of it. He pushes himself back against that cock, hoping Rick would understand that as a sign he should keep saying those nasty and horrible things.

“If you keep wiggling on it like that, I won’t last long,” he says, laughing a little, and gives Daryl an unexpected kiss.

Rick pulls back and Daryl crosses his legs around his waist, bringing him inside again. They both moan into the kiss, and Rick sneaks one hand between their bodies, jerking Daryl off gently. He breaks the kiss, but Darryl isn’t too bothered, because he’s talking a second later and Daryl can never get enough of that.

“Love seeing you hard like that with my cock so deep inside you. Wish I could suck you off and fuck you at the same time.”

Daryl’s helpful mind hurries to the dildo collection he found in that abandoned house—it’s definitely a way to fuck Daryl and suck him off at the same time—but he pushes that thought away. Not only it’s other people’s sex toys, but it’s dead people’s sex toys. Thankfully, Rick’s thrusts make a nice work distracting him.

“Can I fuck you on all fours?” Rick pants in his ears. “After I saw you last night with your ass up, looking over your shoulder, fuck, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I wanted to fuck you so badly you can’t even imagine.”

Daryl looks desperately for something just as filthy to say so he can prove Rick he’s not some blushing teenager when it comes to dirty talk, but he can’t think of anything that doesn’t sound ridiculous. So he does the only thing he can think of and unscrews himself from the man’s cock, taking the same position he was in yesterday—chest on the mattress and ass up in the air. He looks back over his shoulder and reaches back, grabbing one ass cheek in each hand and spreading himself. He knows he’s a little loose—feels how much he must be gaping when he twitches his muscles—and hopes putting himself on display like that is invitation enough for Rick to come fuck him again.

And in case it isn’t, he says, “Come fuck me then.”

Rick is on top of Daryl the second the words are out of his mouth, thick cock forcing its way inside breathtakingly fast, and _fuck,_ this new angle hits Daryl exactly where he needs it to. He can’t touch himself because Rick’s thrusts are too forceful for him to hold himself up without any support from his arms, but he already knows he won’t need his hands to come. If before it felt like there was something standing between him and his orgasm, now it feels like the barrier is still there, but Rick is going to fuck him right through it, breaking any dam between him and the flood that threatens to engulf him.

When Daryl comes, cock untouched, it’s like Rick’s fucking the orgasm out of him; his muscles flex tight, and it makes Rick’s cock feel so much bigger. His cock pumps stream after stream of come onto his sheet, just inches above the day-old stain.

On top of him, Rick keeps fucking him, faster and harder, muttering a litany of _fuck, Daryl, fuck, god_ that Daryl already knows will keep replaying in his ears long after this is over. Rick’s hands on his hips are tight enough to bruise him. Being fucked after coming makes his toes curl, almost painful in its ecstasy, but he can’t tell Rick to stop—he wants him to stop and doesn’t want to at the same time. The violent fucking makes him feel like he’s just a thing Rick is using to come, but the moans in his ears make him feel positively worshipped—and how could it be any different when it’s him, _Daryl Dixon,_ giving Rick so much pleasure?

When Rick finally comes, flooding him with a warm wave, twitching inside him, Daryl feels a mix of _fucking finally_ with _not enough._ It’s barely over and he already wants it to happen again; he can tell his hole is going to feel a little tender after this, and part of him wants Rick to make sure he stays like that.

Rick takes a moment to dismount him, touching a sweaty forehead to Daryl’s naked back. A lonely drop of come trickles down his asshole when Rick pulls out, and that alone makes Daryl feel more owned than a crack full of come last night had made him feel.

They lie on the mattress for a while, Daryl on his stomach and Rick on his back, the wet stain on the sheet marking the small space between them. A closed mouth catches no flies, but it isn’t the fear of shoving his foot in his mouth that keeps Daryl quiet this time. It’s comfort.

Daryl is almost dozing off when Rick’s voice breaks the quietness.

“I didn’t even make it to the video’s final cut.”

Daryl takes a second to catch on to what he means, but once he does, he props himself up on an elbow, turning towards Rick, his attention captivated.

“But you’re on the cover.”

Rick smiles a little sheepishly. “Lori had just gotten pregnant and we needed money for exams. I ran into an old college roommate who had started working in an adult studio, and he extended me an invitation to shoot a video. And I thought to myself, why not. It was good pay, I needed the cash, and it’d be just me in the scene, so it wasn’t the same as cheating. I watched stuff like that all the time, so what was wrong with starring one myself? But the moment I saw those bright lights on me, all the cameras in the room, and there was this girl eating a fucking sandwich while I was trying to jerk off…” He shakes his head, chuckling. “I went limp in less than five minutes and I couldn’t get it up after that.”

Daryl frowns, fighting a smile of his own. “How come you’re still on the cover?”

“My friend was a nice guy. He let me off the hook without as much as word about breach of contract. So when he asked me if he could still use the first few minutes of footage on promotional material, trailers and stuff, I didn’t say no. He even loaned me money for Lori’s first ultrasound. Then it wasn’t long till I got in the academy, and none of that mattered anymore.” He’s staring at the ceiling, almost like he’s talking to himself, but now he finally looks back to Daryl. “How long have you known?”

Daryl shrugs, pretending finding the tape wasn’t a big deal to him. “A few days ago. Found it in a house I was looting during a run. Dude who used to live there was straight jock number two.”

Rick chuckles at the mention of the title. “Suppose I should be thankful you’re the one who found it and not Glenn.”

Daryl tries to imagine what would have happened if Glenn had found the tape instead of him. Maybe he’d bring to home just to make some lighthearted fun of Rick, but truth is, Glenn probably wouldn’t even have found the tape, even if he did find the drawer. He’d have taken one look at that many dildos, and closed right back. But Daryl still can’t make up his mind as to what would have happened if he himself had never found the tape, if no one did. Maybe it’s some domino effect shit and he’d never have surprised Rick in the tool shed—he wouldn’t have felt so restless and wouldn’t have offered to stand guard that night. But what if he hadn’t found the tape and somehow still surprised Rick in the tool shed? Would he have spied on the man all the same? Would he have taken Rick up on his offer should he make a pass on him?

Looking at Rick right now, the thin sheen of sweat covering his face, his shirt all ruffled up, pants still open and underwear wet with something, Daryl realizes he wouldn’t change a thing in how things went down.

He’s got questions about what happened, though, stuff he’d like to know. Did Rick ever do any of those things before? Did he ever look at Daryl like that way before the night in the tool shed? Did he like guys or did he like Daryl? And he’s got about stuff that might or might not happen in the future. What is going on between them—is it a regular thing? Should he keep waiting for Rick to take the first step, or is it okay for him to go after Rick when he needs him too? What will they do if anyone finds out?

But then Rick’s large blue eyes land on his and they look at each other for a second, before Rick kisses him, slow and soft, carefully. Daryl melts in that easy kiss, loving everything about it. In that moment, he realizes he doesn’t care about the answers to those questions, not really. If there’s even a snowball’s chance he gets to keep Rick with him, he’s willing to bet on it.

**Author's Note:**

> Unfortunately, I'm not a native speaker and this work is unbetaed. I do my best editing it, but there's only so much I can do. So feel free to point out mistakes and help me improve; concrit is always welcome.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


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